


Raw Material

by RubyBakeneko



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anthony is Thirsty in Any Universe, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will, Hannibal is Not a Killer (Yet), M/M, Minor Character Death, Role Reversal, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Serial Killer Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 05:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14097963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyBakeneko/pseuds/RubyBakeneko
Summary: Betrayed by his psychiatrist, serial killer Will Graham escapes to Italy. There, he reflects on the nature of his relationship with Hannibal, and he meets someone who provides him with an opportunity to work through some of his issues. Written for #InYourSkin (the role reversal challenge)





	Raw Material

**Author's Note:**

> Written for #InYourSkin (the role reversal challenge), when I should really have been focusing on preparing for a work presentation. This version of a role reversal involves keeping their canon jobs and many facts about their personalities fixed but making Will the established killer and Hannibal the one who is merely receptive to potentially becoming a killer. I chose to leave some details to the imagination in order to avoid getting bogged down in extensive exposition, so I hope this AU is comprehensible! Also, I should note that I’ve adapted some canon lines for my own purposes.

Hannibal’s face is serene and accepting, as though he fully expects this to happen and understands why it must. He barely makes a sound when Will’s knife slips in. Eyelids fluttering, he presses a palm to his abdomen as blood soaks through his white shirt and flows over his fingers. Will stares at his face, absorbing his agony.

“I let you in,” Will says, hating the way his voice trembles. He brushes the rain-drenched hair from Hannibal’s eyes, letting the knife clatter to the floor. “I wanted you to see me.”

Hannibal staggers back against the kitchen counter, still clutching at his stomach. “I do see you,” he says softly. The blood drips and pools on the ground, seeping between Will's floorboards.

Will grimaces. “But you can’t accept what you see.”

“Can’t I?”

Will shakes his head and grits his teeth, refusing to let Hannibal infect him with the slightest whisper of hope or regret. He burns with bitter humiliation at his loss, at his complete stupidity. At daring to believe he was not alone.

He looks down at Hannibal, at the pallid sweatiness of his face, his pain evident in the spasmodic twitch of his lip and the labored shudder of his breathing. “Did you _really_ think you could do it, Dr. Lecter? That you could change someone like me—the way I’ve changed you?”

Hannibal gazes up from the floor, gives him a shaky, defiant smile that’s as full of sorrow as it is of malice. “You must know I already have.”

—

On the transatlantic flight to Schiphol, Will’s memories of the last year relentlessly replay in his mind. He remembers the defensive disdain he felt for Hannibal when he was pointlessly assigned to offer Will psychiatric support, how quickly the boring conversations about his “harrowing work as a profiler” turned into genuine explorations of his complex relationship with violence. 

He recalls the whiplash of surprise he felt when Hannibal so effortlessly understood what he was trying to describe—the beauty in the grotesque, the thrill of taking a life. He deliberately kept it all constrained to the heady, electric sense of power coursing through him when he killed Hobbs—he didn’t talk about the bodies he’d been leaving behind him for years, the corpses he mutilated and transformed into better versions of their living selves. Still, the connection felt frighteningly, euphorically honest. It felt _real_ —like Will was encountering someone, and being encountered in return. 

He goes over the details dozens of times, pressing on the open wound of his loss. Had a part of Hannibal ever wanted them to leave together, or was he simply stalling until he could engineer a situation that would put Will in prison?

The cabin darkens and he sinks into an uneasy sleep. He dreams he’s unzipping his skin, peeling it back from his bones to reveal the dark, leathery creature inside. Black antlers twist up from his skull, hunger growling in his gut. He sees Hannibal standing opposite him, a feathered stag at his side. The stag huffs loudly, steam coiling up from its widened nostrils, and Hannibal places a hand on its flank. Will walks towards Hannibal, and the stag growls a low warning, stepping forward as Hannibal retreats. Its eyes are dark red, warm and liquid, and when Will reaches it, he finds it doesn’t reject him. It leans in, and he feels the gentle brush of a cold nose nuzzling his cheek. Gratitude thrums through Will’s veins and he hears himself release a broken, human sob.

He wakes up disoriented, jolted back into consciousness by the sound of an air steward announcing their imminent landing and providing passengers with information about their connecting flights. Will looks at the empty seat beside him and aches.

—

“Welcome to Florence, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

Will holds out his hand, pocketing his fake passport like he’s just another American tourist. Armed with a slew of false documents and enough money to travel to the other side of the world, Will could have gone almost anywhere. It will take a while for law enforcement to realize the extent of the resources he has been hiding behind his innocently modest lifestyle. 

He knows the best plan—the smartest plan—would be to head for a non-extradition country, change his appearance and start a different life. In spite of this, the only plan he can even bring himself to consider is one that will allow him to pick at the scab of his love for Hannibal, immersed in his history. 

He spends the first two weeks visiting all the places Hannibal has talked about, trying to replicate those rose-tinted experiences that helped to shape him in his early life. Will can almost feel him in the air, see the echo of him in the streets and hear the sound of his pencil scraping across his sketching paper in the Uffizi Gallery. Hannibal, who had embraced him with such sincerity and had fooled him so completely.

Will misses him terribly and without respite, the weight of his heartache a miserable fury that makes him feel ill. He imagines they are together in bed, that he is pressed up against the heat of Hannibal’s back with a possessive arm draped around his shoulder. He dominates Will’s dreams, which are by turn so luridly explicit that he comes in his sleep and so painfully romantic that he wakes in tears.

Hannibal has survived Will, the way few have done before him. He might arrive in Italy any day now, to kill Will or to kiss him. His heart races at the thought of either.

He silently dares Hannibal to find him. _I’m here. Come and get me._

—

During his third week, Will attends the inaugural lecture at an exhibition focused on medieval instruments of torture. Propelled by the twin drives of sadism and masochism, he is as attracted by the stunningly creative cruelty of the artifacts on display as he is by the knowledge that Hannibal would undoubtedly have found them fascinating. Dressed in a midnight blue suit, Will’s body blends in with the crowd even as his mind does not. He is irritated by the low, buzzing chatter all around him and by the constricting fabric of his formal clothes. The urge to take a life is a shivery, restless itch that has been left unsatisfied for far too long.

Accepting a passing waiter’s offer of champagne, he swallows it down in two swift gulps. He senses someone looking at him and scans the room. A few feet away is a man leaning on a pillar, brows lifted in intrigued amusement at Will’s voracious appetite for complimentary alcohol. He’s tall and slender with dark hair, his pose affectedly causal. He raises his glass in a mock toast, and Will finds himself walking over before he has a chance to think it through.

The man extends his hand, his skin hot and dry as their palms meet. “Anthony Dimmond. Literature professor by day, desperate poet by night. I hoped I might find inspiration amidst the very worst that humanity has to offer.”

He has an English accent and speaks with the kind of droll, theatrical delivery that is suggestive of both intelligence and ego.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” Will says.

“Ph.D. or MD?”

“MD.”

“Oh my,” Anthony says, smirking as he takes another sip of his drink. “It’s not often that we ivory tower academics find ourselves amongst those with practical utility.”

Will tilts his head, imagining what Hannibal would say. “And what utility do you have, Mr. Dimmond?”

“I hardly think it’s appropriate to show you in such a public setting.” 

Will laughs, and the genuineness of it takes him by surprise. He feels Anthony’s flirtatious buoyancy seep into him, a pleasant warmth that loosens his limbs.

Anthony scrutinizes him. “What field of medicine is lucky enough to count you amongst its ranks?”

“Once surgery, now psychiatry.”

“Ah, a skilled mind and skilled hands.”

Their conversation is cut short by an announcement indicating the start of the lecture, and Anthony excuses himself to join a colleague. “I believe she’s what is colloquially known as a frenemy,” he mutters with a wink. “But please, do call me sometime.” 

Will wanders into the auditorium and takes his seat, Anthony’s business card in his jacket pocket.

—

Something niggles at Will later that night, though he struggles to put his finger on what it is. He searches for Anthony online, finds his academic profile and a handful of his poems along with an article interviewing him about his work. It is headed with a moody black and white photograph where he is staring into the middle distance, and beneath the image there is a verbose, florid quote about the power of art. _And there it is_ , Will realizes. Anthony is every inch the sort of person that a dating agency would select as Hannibal’s perfect match. 

He displays the kind of playful fluidity that would instantly attract Hannibal, and he lacks Will’s awkwardness, his air of slowly simmering menace. When he slips into Anthony’s perspective, he finds the same mix of curiosity and sensuality that Hannibal exudes, feels the cushion of sophisticated privilege and the self-assurance it brings. He can so easily imagine Hannibal with Anthony on his arm, the pair of them smartly dressed and socially desirable, effortlessly mixing with people who leave Will utterly cold.

Will slams his laptop shut and pours himself a whiskey.

—

The following weekend, Anthony arrives at Will’s hotel suite, ostensibly invited for drinks and yet clearly hoping more will be on the cards. He is dressed in a purple shirt, smiling mischievously as he hands over a bottle of wine. “Only the best for an evening with the esteemed Dr. Lecter,” he says, making no attempt to disguise the expense.

They work their way through several glasses of wine and half an hour of debate about the lecture they attended. Will sees in Anthony an affable visage concealing a desire for adventure, senses a sliver of darkness that shimmers at the heart of him. He is motivated by curiosity, capriciousness, a thirst for romance and the excitement of a life vividly lived.

Anthony peruses the room service menu. “I must ask—If I order chocolate-covered strawberries, will you surmise that I’m nothing but a horrible cliché?”

“If I were inclined to surmise you were nothing but a cliché, Anthony, I would have done so already,” Will says, Hannibal’s talent for ambiguity rolling off his tongue.

“And yet you don’t deny that you have,” Anthony says, clutching his heart in feigned distress.

The controversial strawberries arrive. Will stands by the window, appreciating the view, and Anthony joins him.

“What would you do, if you could do anything?” Will asks.

Anthony bites into a strawberry, sucking the chocolate from its flesh. His eyes twinkle with confidence. “Anything?”

“Yes.”

“Travel the world. Absorb its beauty, eat its finest food. Live for pleasure, and for gluttony—aesthetic and otherwise.”

There’s a loaded silence. Will looks straight at Anthony, soaks up his mounting desire. If he had been more like Anthony, perhaps Hannibal could have accepted him without reservation. If he had been able to offer elegance and intrigue instead of instability and brutality, perhaps he might not have been betrayed.

Irrational jealousy hits Will full force, his gut churning with it, and he channels it all into pure physicality, grabbing Anthony by the jacket lapels and pulling him into an aggressive kiss. Anthony responds in an instant, his mouth sweet and fruity, his hands dropping to rest on Will’s waist. He’s a good kisser—bold but not sloppy—and he leans in closer so that their hips brush just as their tongues meet. Will is getting hard in spite of himself, his dick confused by the proximity of a hot body and his mind confused by the dizzyingly blurred line between Hannibal and himself, between Anthony and himself.

Anthony sucks at Will’s bottom lip, peppers his jaw with kisses. “I’d like to make you come, doctor,” he purrs, brushing his lips against Will’s ear.

“Show me,” Will says.

Anthony goes down on him with practiced ease, shooting him coy looks and murmuring with pleasure at the taste of him. Will winds his fingers in the curls at the back of Anthony’s head, tugs at them and thrusts deeper into his mouth. He moans with approval—he likes it rough, Will thinks. Hannibal liked it rough, too, though never on his knees like this.

“That’s good,” Will breathes, eyes slipping closed. Anthony lacks Hannibal’s superhumanly flexible tongue, but if Will lets his mind drift then he finds he can almost let himself believe he’s back in Baltimore, back in a world where he and Hannibal would spend exhaustingly long hours in bed, where they would wake up entwined and smiling. He can’t hold onto the image, and it drifts away like smoke.

Anthony wraps a hand around the base of Will’s cock and strokes as he sucks. Will curses, dizzily quivering right on the edge. Part of him wants to let go, has so sorely missed the warmth and intensity of someone’s mouth on him.

“Stop,” he gasps out at the last second, and Anthony slowly lifts his head.

He brushes the tip of Will’s cock with pouting lips. “Will you take me to bed?” he asks.

—

Naked and on top of Will as they kiss, Anthony’s body feels completely alien. He’s slender and bony in places where Hannibal was solid, his chest smooth where Hannibal’s was covered with soft hair. Will flips their positions, pins Anthony underneath him and reaches to the bedside drawer for condoms and lubricant.

Anthony makes a sound that’s a cross between a laugh and a moan as Will curls two fingers inside of him. “I’m thrilled to benefit from your anatomical knowledge,” he says, arching his back.

“A perk of the job,” Will replies, leaning down and biting into the sweaty skin of Anthony’s neck.

He gives a throaty hum. “I’m sure it is. But I know you’re not Dr. Lecter—so who are you?”

Will blinks, momentarily frozen. He realizes that Anthony is _aroused_ by this, by the fantasy that this is a game of equals. His lips curve into a challenging smile, his cock lying hard and flushed against his stomach.

Will slides a third finger inside of him, knowing the stretch will feel delicious at this point. “Does it matter, Anthony?”

“Only insofar as the elaborate subterfuge makes me want you even more,” he says. He reaches out and wraps his hand around Will’s dick, giving him two slow, teasing pumps of his fist. “What’s more intriguing than a beautiful man with something to hide?”

Will experiences a few moments of relief as they fuck, all of his contradictory emotions melting together and pouring out in the brutal snaps of his hips as Anthony groans and pleads for more. His body feels exquisite to Will—even with the condom on—but it isn’t enough. It’s all wrong.

Will’s identity spirals away into indistinctness and he imagines he truly is Hannibal—Hannibal fucking Anthony, someone who should fit his needs so well. And yet even as Will submerges himself so deeply in Hannibal’s mindset that he almost loses any sense of perspective, this all still feels so empty to him, so soulless. In that moment, Will realizes that Hannibal truly loves him. What they had was real, and after that kind of intimacy no one else could never be enough for either of them.

He comes with a spasm that is almost painful, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. Anthony jerks himself off with clumsy urgency, spilling over his fingers and chest after a few strokes. Will swings a leg over Anthony’s hips and flops onto the other side of the bed, lying on his back as he tries to ground himself in his own body again. He’s breathing hard, reality and empathy still a hazy blur. They lie in silence as minutes tick by.

He feels a hand on his chest, fingers trailing over his ribs. “There are unique opportunities here for us both, if you will allow yourself to see them,” Anthony says quietly.

“Yes, I think there are,” Will says. And as Anthony looks at him with his smiling, parted lips and his knowing gaze, Will pushes him onto his back and holds him down. By the time he understands what is happening and starts to struggle, it is too late—two hands are wrapped around his neck, squeezing. 

Will feels no remorse. No regret. Some kind of peace descends, and he exhales with relief as the light leaves Anthony’s eyes. In the end, he was no more than raw material put on earth for Will to shape into his design.

—

Hannibal stares at the screen of his tablet. Freddie Lounds has written an article exploring the similarities between the elaborateness of Will’s suspected homicides in Baltimore and a similarly ostentatious killing in Palermo. From the description of the body, Hannibal knows immediately that this isn’t a copycat, isn’t someone with a similar mind. This is Will, and the murder is a message.

Hannibal emails Freddie, asks if her unscrupulous sources have access to pictures of the crime scene. He is uniquely qualified, he explains, to judge whether this is in fact Will Graham’s work. Freddie barters with him for an official quote, and Hannibal consents. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to see what Will has created. 

The photographs take Hannibal’s breath away. Will has built a heart for him, centered in the Norman Chapel. It is a gruesome, intricate piece of art, a man skinned and bent with the utmost care. It is, Hannibal can see, a monument both to Will’s cruelty and to his own dormant potential. Poised at the entrance to Hannibal’s memory palace, it is a statement of Will’s love. It makes an admission, and it poses a question only Hannibal can hear: _I forgive you—will you forgive me?_

Hannibal traces the outline of the heart with his fingertip. “Yes,” he whispers.

No matter the cost—to Will, to himself, to everyone in their path—he will make the right decision this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! [Here's the link to this story on tumblr](https://rubybakeneko.tumblr.com/post/172320481127/raw-material-rubybakeneko-hannibal-tv) should you feel inclined to share it. Also, I'm always happy to talk to people about Hannibal, so feel free to say hello any time. :)


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